To The Brink
by Grimm Dolly
Summary: He promised to take her places - she didn't know it would be to the edge of her sanity.
1. Madness Takes All

"To The Brink"

Chapter One: "Madness Takes All"

_Dear Diary,_

_I remember the first time I ever heard the voice. I was five years old, just starting Kindergarten. It was Autumn, and the leaves had all turned. Halloween was right around the corner, and all the school was decorated with pumpkins carved into all kinds of faces. Paper bats hung from the ceiling, and fake cobwebs ruled most of the corners, with glowing spiders in the darkest ones. Even the lunches had become rather interesting - Spaghetti worms with brain sausages in it. Eyeball candies. Monster salad. Vampire juice. See, in this neighborhood, Halloween was one big joke! And you learned very fast that a joke was a _**_very_**_ serious thing 'round those parts. Not that I'm complaining. To this day, Halloween is still one of my favorite holidays. _

_Anyway, you know how you always have bullies and party poopers in school? You know the ones! People who think they're too good to have fun in everyone else's celebrations. Too cool to be kind. All that jazz. Well, this elementary school had a collection of them - most of them older than I - and they were very good at making the younger kids feel inferior on the playground. Now, I was never raised a pushover. I spoke my mind and I made myself heard! That was the way of my family. And in school was no different. I found, however, that the louder I talked, the more often I would get punished during recess. Tricks and name-callings. Shoves. The normal bully stereotypes. And boy, were there a lot of them._

_I remember on Halloween, it was a Friday, and during class everyone was allowed to dress up. We shared candy, and trick-or-treated to every classroom in turn. The whole school was in on it, and everywhere you turned, there'd be a mummy peering around a corner, or a zombie waging war on a door. Talk about screams! Giggle fests could be heard all down every hallway, the high-pitched screamings in short succession, too. Well, little did I know, that once school was out, and everyone was leaving, that the real horrors would come out to play. See, I had a routine. I would walk from my class room, through the playground, past the corner of the football field, and into the back gate of my home. It was a short walk, and always fun to take in the afternoons. _

_This afternoon happened to be cloudy. Rainy. Cold. And I didn't think anything of it, because that's the kind of weather I love! It didn't register at the time, that I was being followed. Nothing struck me as odd, in fact, until a large, lumbering figure stepped out of the shadows of one of the big metal slides. The person wore a mask, and carried a knife, covered to the hilt in blood spatter. My first instinct? Run like a bitch._

_However, to my horror, behind me were three more. I was so paralyzed that even screaming was out of order. So, I panicked, and backed up, turning to what I thought was a safe corner of the school ground. I had forgotten about the trees - oh, the trees I loved to lie under - the trees that now barred my way from any hope of safety. Unfortunately for me, I backed right on into one, whose trunk was very much larger than me. No way up, no easy way around. So, I stood there, prayed to my God, and asked 'why me'? I could feel tears running down my cheeks, but hadn't even registered that I'd begun to cry in the first place. My knees ached, and my spine wobbled. _

_Closer, and closer they came, weapons lifted to the dreary sky! And just when I thought I was becoming claustrophobic and would die from the sheer intensity of the moment - They began to laugh. All in unison. All of a different pitch. And suddenly the masks cane off, and the fingers pointed. All at me. And they laughed so hard, that even as they turned to walk away, leaving me the only child in the playground, crying at the base of a tree, I could hear them long after they were out of my sights. I was so miserable, returning home with a tear-soaked face and dirty knees, that I didn't even have the heart to go out trick-or-treating that night. _

_Needless to say, my family took the matter into their adult hands and I never, ever saw those four bullies again. But, that didn't stop the other bullies from harassing me. See, before they conveniently disappeared from school, the four who'd had a fantastic laugh at my expense deemed it necessary to share their wonderful story with everyone. And I do mean __everyone__... It became almost ritual, after that, for some group to corner me at a tree and point fingers and laugh, just for kicks and giggles. And though it didn't scare me, it made me sad. For what five year old is truly so competent and strong that they can take on a hoard of rude children and not come out unscathed?_

_Lucky for me, I knew how to hold my own and make a shell. I could just quirk a brow and continue on with my reading and pretend they weren't really there. But that didn't stop the pain I felt every time a finger was pointed at me. Every time someone laughed in my face and called me a name. Every time my hair was yanked, every time I was pushed, or every time I was the butt of some silent joke. It just became commonplace for me to hide that pain, and feed off the strength that my pretend bravery gave the few friends I surrounded myself with. _

_The point to this, as stated earlier, was that it wasn't long after this terrifying incident that I began to hear the voice..._

_It came to me, for the first time, in my dreams. I would relive every frightening moment of that Halloween afternoon, but this time there was no laughter. No one took off the masks, and the weapons that had been plastic in real life were suddenly very real in my dreams. And as they crept closer, I could feel the tree-bark against my back. Leaves cracked under their feet, and I could hear myself whimpering like a wounded kitten. A voice, raspy and hoarse, called out to me from somewhere above. If I tipped my head, I could always see a figure, black and hidden amongst the dying leaves. That figure, too, frightened me. Sometimes moreso than the deadly group of people moving slowly toward me. _

_The first time I had this dream, I did nothing. I would simply sit in the dirt and cry. And just as I could feel them closing in, just as the voice above my head called out one last time, sounding very much like a disappointed parent, I would wake up, crying into my pillow and shaking like a leaf. Occasionally, I would waken to the sound of screaming tearing itself from my throat. And as I got older, the dreams became worse. More vivid, more deadly. And always, that figure followed me and would hold itself somewhere just above my head, offering me a hand that I would never take. _

_As a matter of fact, I didn't take that hand until I was thirteen years old, and was about ready to kill myself. And I do not mean metaphorically..._

_Soon, I began nightmaring again. The same old plot, with a brand new twist._

_This time, I took the hand offered to me..._

_I could feel scratchy material on the palm of the shadow, and it pulled with all its might to help me scramble up that tree! _

_I remember that this time I didn't wake up crying. _

_This time, I woke up laughing at the absurdity of it all, happy to finally have gotten a hold of what I thought was a dream and nothing more. Imagine my terror to realize that the laughter wasn't even coming from me. It was somewhere deep in the back of my head, gravelly and ever-so-slightly demented. I remember trying for days to ignore the words it spoke to me, to ignore the laughter, the rages, the accusations and then the promises. One night in particular, it said something to me that has stuck with me for almost ten years._

_"You're welcome to believe that the world is a nice, logical, rational, safe place... You'll be wrong, but that hasn't stopped anyone else who thinks the same way."_

_I wasn't everyone else. I didn't think like everyone else! I wouldn't be everyone else, so help me! It was that night that my denial of my inner demon turned into curiosity. Curiosity turned to acceptance. And finally, all this time later, I find myself saddened by the idea of not having this second half..._

_All because he's left me. _

_Just like I hoped he never would..._


	2. Psych101

_Dear Diary, _

_It's on days like this where I feel like my own sanity is somehow in question. Not by anyone else, oh no, but by myself. See, to everyone else I'm perfectly normal, if a bit above average, and a little silly. I'm the straight A student, President of the Comic Club, first chair in the Soprano section of my choir, and I just scored the lead as Christine in my school's rendition of _Phantom of the Opera._ I'm not the most popular girl in school, but my friends are the most loyal. I may not be bleach blonde, but my hair is envious, as well as my smile. I may not go through a boyfriend a week, but honestly, I don't want to anyway... _

_On the exterior, I'm a model child. I cook and clean. I do chores without fail or question. I don't do drugs or drink, even if I do smoke. I'm seventeen. Three months and it'll be legal - nevermind that I've been doing it since I was fifteen... I take care of my grandparents lovingly, and always have a kind word and attentive ear. I'm always first on the list to babysit younger cousins. I volunteer at the animal shelter. What's not to love about me? _

_The fact that I'm insane, for starters. I've been insane since I was a child, and I've grown so accustomed to it now, that moments like this where I begin to question myself are becoming less and less freq- _

"You're thinking I'm not really here again?"

I sigh, pen dropping from my fingertips and onto the white wood of my desk, leaving a dot on my paper.

"You couldn't be. It's crazy. _I'm_ crazy."

A chuckle, hoarse and low makes my spine tingle and sends waves of cool blood through my veins. I _love _it.

"Why is it so difficult? You're intelligent enough, figure it out. I was there when you needed me, and why? Because you found a kinship through a book! The mind is a very, _very _powerful thing, my dear, and I'm just as real as you are because of the strength of _yours_..." His tone is almost accusatory, as it always gets when we have these conversations. I think I hurt or offend him with my thoughts of insanity.

"Comic books aren't books. They're pictures with a few words attached. Child stories to keep kids entertained when they don't like reading books without pictur-"

"_Is that what I am?_ A book of pictures and meaningless words that entertained your ten-year-old psyche but doesn't now?"

Abrupt and eerie silence falls, and I feel my heart ache at the numbness in my temples. We're still learning how to deal with each other's tempers, each other's moods. When we get frustrated like this, he closes himself off from me, and leaves me feeling numb inside. And I am too bull-headed to care at this moment, and so I go back to writing, finishing off my insanity plea to the blank pages of my diary before locking it tight and hiding it under the rest of my dirty laundry.

It isn't until later I realize how lonely it is without him. How nervous I feel when he isn't around. He's like a dependency, and I understand that, but my reasoning is that if he's a part of me, and I crated him only in someone else's likeness, I'm still dependent on myself...? Something like that. But without his voice to ease my nerves, to tell me I can do this, I hear myself stutter when I sing, forget my lines when I rehearse. And worse? I can't focus on my homework right now. This report is due tomorrow, and I've barely got two sentences. With him around, I can pop out a three page paper in twenty minutes flat...

I can feel the tears come before I know I'm crying, and my forehead is on my textbook, the cool pages calming me from the_ outside in._ But that never did work well for me, I need calm from _inside out!_

"As beautiful as you are with tear-soaked cheeks, child, do stop your crying. I'm right here."

And soft and slow as blackest death, when I close my eyes I can feel warmth surround me - like the hug of a long lost lover no one is supposed to know about. I can almost smell him, I think. Sterility mixed with sweat and old cologne, which isn't very sterile at all. He is chuckling, and I open my eyes to see why. A small standing mirror on my desk reveals my smile, and the tension has literally melted away from my features.

"If I were so unreal, why would I affect you so completely?"

"You said yourself that the mind is a very powerful thing." My offer was not sarcastic, nor was it blunt. Merely a restatement, and he knew it and took it as such. His laughter is icy and rings in the back of my ears, and I suddenly feel _complete _again.

"Indeed I did, child. Indeed I did. Now. What was your homework on again?"

"The effects of divorce on children of different age groups up to sixteen. Blah blah blah..."

This subject makes me weary. Child Psychology. However, it is a requirement for me to get right into the meat of my studies in college, so why not?

"Ahh," he coos at the back of my skull, vibrating right down to the tip of my tailbone. "Psychology, my specialty. Let's start with you. Your father and mother divorced when you were ten, right?"

"This isn't supposed to be about me. I am not a proper reference."

"But you're wrong! Use your knowledge and experience to find the right references.. How did you feel?"

"Relieved," I sigh, sifting fingers through my hair. The curls tangle around the tips, and I free them gently as I plan the proper words to continue. "But you know why," I finally say, and I know he understands.

"Does it still leave you with nightmares?"

"You know that, too."

"It can't be dealt with if you don't talk about it."

"Maybe I don't want to deal."

A sigh, mimic of my own, whispers through my mind like wind, and an image of him rubbing the bridge of his nose flutters behind my eyes. I know I frustrate him. For all my intelligence, and for all my maturity, there are moments where I just don't want to be. And being an Aries, a Ram, I have tendencies to dig my heels in and not move a muscle unless I'm butting heads with someone. This is one of the subjects that do that to me.

"Want and need are two very different things."

"Who needs?"

I can feel him bristle inside of me, but he checks himself. Quickly, indeed. And his hand is resting on my shoulder, a warm prickle that I adore so much, and I feel myself relax under his pseudo-touch.

I concede. "Fine. Dealing it is."

At least this way my homework will get done on time and I won't be compromising my perfect GPA...

A chuckle. "Good girl. Now, let's try this again..."

And so we did.


	3. Poetic Injustice

_Dear Diary,_

_ Happy birthday to me! _

_Not._

_I'm officially a woman today in my society's eyes. Old enough to legally smoke, go into most clubs, as long as I stay away from the bars, and even old enough to look at porn and buy it too. Yep, because ninety-nine percent of what I do is motivated by spite and porn… Fantastic. Shouldn't I be more happy today? Shouldn't everything have gone my way? I should have stuffed my face with junk food, cake and ice cream, had fun with the party guests, and followed that up with a long night of doing nothing but thoroughly enjoying myself._

_So, why am I sitting here, mascara running down my face with the beginnings of a black eye dimming my vision and aching something fierce? Because, as my luck dictates, I am not allowed to have something called a 'happy birthday'. Of course not. That would be much-too-much to ask for, wouldn't it?_

_It started out fine – a lovely place rented out, a great DJ, party decorations inside and out. Friends, presents, family. Everything an eighteen year old could want. Oh, and don't forget the spiked punch bowl. Haha! The DJ happened to be a good friend of mine, and damn is he a fantastic dude! And he knows my tastes, I'll give him that. Lots of dance, reggae, and rock & roll, baby! Pizza coming out people's ears. Presents in a huge pile. Streamers, balloons, the works._

_What happened? MICHAEL HAPPENED. Fucking Michael! I'm almost done with high school, and I've been done with Mike since my freshman year, for God sakes. Why in the name of all that is good in this miserable little world did my ex pick today of all mother fucking days to show up? How did he even know where my fucking party was? I mean, come on! So, he shows up with a couple buddies, plastic guns (that look horribly real), and some spray paint. While all of us are inside, me opening presents and giggling at the silly ones (who gives a girl glow-in-the-dark condoms, anyway?), him and his jack-ass goons are outside popping my balloons and spray painting horrible things in the grass and on the sidewalk. What the fuck._

_I see this as I walk outside, and the next thing I know, a gun is at my temple and tears are running down my face. I hear his voice to my left, and he's getting such a kick out of my despair. I don't know how it came to this – we broke up four years ago. He'd been controlling and showed signs of abuse then, but this? I can hear him, telling me to get on my knees. His friends are inside the building, shouting at my friends, my family. Telling them to back away from the windows and doors, into a corner. I hear the guys yelling back, my mother crying. I hope to God my grandmother's okay. Her heart hasn't been so good since my grandfather died._

_His hand is in my hair, and he yanks so hard! I hear a zipper, a wicked snort of a laugh that disgusts me down to my very soul. I hear the command he gives, but I don't remember the rest…_

_What I do remember, however, brings me comfort._

"_You know what you have to do when this is over."_

_I laugh, bitterly, inside my head, and though my mouth and body are numb, I know what's going on outside my conscience, and all I can do is cry inside. Long arms curl around my shoulders, my mental sense of self shaking like a babe in the cold. I don't understand this, but at the moment I don't want to. All I know is that I can smell old cologne and anger is radiating from the body next to mine. I don't know how long I was in this self-induced conscious coma, but when I came out of it, it was because of the sound of a click near my temple._

_My lips were wet, sticky, and something much less dense was rolling down from my temple. Water. It was water in those guns! I turned my eyes on this man I hated so much, and he must have felt the fury. His laughter stopped, cut short by my silent fury and his own surprise at it. He always thought I was timid. Little girl's not so easy anymore, I thought, rising from my knees and staring him down._

"_Do it," encouraged the sleek voice in the back of my head. "You don't need to fear him. He is powerless in the face of your wrath and no one is here to stop you, my dear."_

_I always carry mace. In this city, only idiots don't carry something protective. It's only been a week, however, since I switched out the contents to something much more toxic. The aerosol can is in my palm before he can blink, and when he does, he breathes in one of the most noxious scents he's ever had the displeasure of inhaling, I'm sure. I don't know what he saw when he opened his eyes, but he swung, and his fist caught my cheekbone, and I staggered back to the wall. His friends left their hostages and came running. He looked at them through squinted, watering eyes, and a shrill scream tore through his mouth._

_I think it's one of the most satisfying sounds I've ever heard._

_He turned heel, ran as fast as his cowardly legs would carry him. His friends followed suit, looking back at me like I was a witch. Or a monster. I hope that's what they thought I was, because if I ever see them again they're in for a rude awakening. I'm much more like Satan's mistress._

_As you can imagine, the shock on my party guests was horrible. My lips were crusted and cracked by something I don't even want to think about, and the skin around my eye was already turning violently red. My family was sympathetic, my friends were infuriated. I think if he'd stuck around, they might've killed him. However, he is for the police to handle now – and I do hope they terrify him as much as I'm hoping they will…_

_At any rate, sitting here now after recounting this story three times to three different officers at the hospital (once while in the process of having my lips and mouth swabbed), I'm feeling rather numb to it. He could have done much worse, true, but what he did was bad enough. If he lives to see daylight, I think he'll remember that I'm not one to be fucked with…_

_So, goodnight, Diary. I'm going to put a fresh bag of frozen peas over my eyes and go off to dream of those perfectly petrified screams…_

"Perfectly petrified screams? Aren't you poetic tonight… How do you feel?"

I smile, closing the book on my desk and locking it tight. It goes in a lock box, along with my notes, other journals full of sketchy material, and a few beautiful vials of bright yellow fluid. The box is placed under a cement cutout under a part of my rug I peeled back myself not too long ago. This isn't stuff you'd want falling into anyone's hands who didn't know how to use it. It's beautiful, really. Untraceable, potent.

"Better," I say after replacing the carpeting into its normal position. "I don't feel as… Violated as I expected I would. Disgusted, yes. Pissed the hell off, yes. But I already got my revenge, and that brings me…"

"Satisfaction," he says knowingly, and I see him nod his head within mine. He's so attractive when he's thinking, and I smile. His fingers are curled under his chin, brilliant eyes downcast in thought. His attire is casual, and I like it on him. Loose button-up shirt tucked into a pair of denims. Glasses hooked on his nose. But tonight he still looks slightly harassed.

"You're not alright," I comment. He smiles.

"Your revenge was satisfactory to you, Natasha. I am far from satisfied."

I feel confused. This is going to take a little conversation, I think…

"Hold that thought, hun."

Sighing, I do what I intended. More peas, back to my room, close the door… And lights out. Now, in the safety of my dark bedroom, under the warmth of my thick blanket, nestled into the soft scent of my feather pillow, I can relax and go back to my discussion. When I concentrate on him again, he is agitated further, and closing my eyes, he allows me to view him pacing. My body is numbing itself, and I feel more spiritually animated in my head. Ah, he is right. Visualization is an incredible technique of the mind. My thoughts touch his softly, and he jumps.

"You are not satisfied?"

"No. He hurt you in a way that I can't allow."

"But we took care of him."

"You took care of him. All I could do was watch…"

He is so bitter – guilty, even. It touches me, and I touch him. I cannot see what I do, but his eyes close and his head tilts as though I'm caressing his cheek. But the moment is short lived.

"I might be many things, none of them good, but of all those things I am fond of you, Natasha. You are brilliant. In my time, when I was whole, never did I meet such an astonishing person. Dedicated and curious. You ask all the right questions and you never hesitate to do what I ask." He pauses, a sigh leaving his lips at my confused expression. He never rambles like this.

"I spent my life outside of humanity, and that's how I liked it. I don't… remember much. But in retrospect…" He stops, shaking his head as if he were sacked and only just coming to his senses. I do not question. He is relieved, I can tell, and his eyes are on me, or at least it feels that way, and they are so bright they remind me of a clear sky at noon. "Child, I hope you killed him with the dose you gave him. That would satisfy me."

It is times like these were he is human to me. He is not the persona of the Scarecrow, and he is not the cold psychiatrist that views everyone and everything through emotionless Plexiglas. I touch him with my mind again, and I see him shiver. I see a crack in him that I know he doesn't like. We've talked often of his dreams, and how they come to him in fragments. His life, supposedly, before being a part of mine. When he was alive and 'whole', he says. Sometimes, I see those fragments in my dreams, and I can see and feel and think through him. As if the roles are reversed.

Right now, I am reminded of how he remembers himself as a young man in college. Timid, almost, but holding such a dark barrel of secrets in his heart. A beautiful mirror with cracked glass that might break if hit too hard. It took him years to build his fences, his façades. In this time, in this place, alone in my room and inside my head, his guard has been let down and for once I can be the one to soothe his violent emotions. I touch him again and he half-heartedly flinches away.

"Stop."

"Need over want, Jonathan." I rarely call him by his first name. His eyes are on mine once more, and his cracks are more obvious.

"They are one in the same, Natasha."

"Don't lie to me!"

I am hurt by his rejection. But I do not stop. Again, touching him, I feel his resolve weaken around me. It is an interesting feeling, breaking down those kinds of mental barriers. This time, he reaches for me, and this is our same old dance with a brand new twist. When he reaches for me, my head lands comfortably on his shoulder, and that is how I cry or scream. This time, it is the opposite. My chin is on the top of his head, his hair soft on my skin. My heart beats hard against his cheek, his arms curling around my waist. I feel his fingers lock behind me, and he just stays there as if pulling away will cause him to lose me to some unseen force. It is only after twenty minutes that I notice he is sleeping.

And within the hour, he is crushing me below him, head buried against my chest, wet tears slicking my skin. My name slips from his lips, and all I can do is touch his hair with my invisible fingers, and sing to him the songs I remember he likes, soothing away what troubles him. Once he is calm, I am, too. And only then do I allow myself to drift to sleep, keenly aware of him even in my slumber…

At breakfast the next morning, a heading catches my eye.

_**Suspect in local sex assault found dead.**_


	4. Overestimation

_Dear Diary,_

_This heat is ridiculous. I mean, I've lived in this city all my life. I learned in fifth grade that it's a desert climate. That means I should expect icy, freeze-your-tits-off winters accompanied by melt-your-tits-off summers! Given that I'm now nineteen years old, and have spent so long in this dry-hole, I should know this and be accustomed to it, right? Yeah, not so much. This apartment has one little tiny wall AC unit in the living room. My bedroom is way in the back and has two outside walls that the sun beats down on all day – and one wall is mostly windows. Lovely view, but COME ON. I deserve a wall unit too! Or else this place really should upgrade to central heat and air. In this city, that is NOT a luxury, it is a necessity. _

_The heat aside, the fair is coming up! I love the fair. Haven't missed a year since I was a child, and lately I've been making a habit of spending about fourteen hours there. Yes, in one day. Ten in the morning to midnight when everyone gets kicked out. Last year, I went with my boyfriend. This year, I'm single again and going with a crowd of friends. Ah, friends. I do love being with them._

_My best friend is coming. She's a relatively new bestie, I guess, given that we met only a couple of years ago. But in light of my last bestie turning into a beastie, someone had to take her place, and no one does it better than 'Chelle. She's the kind of girl who's naturally very down to earth, thoughtful, and intelligent. She's also the kind of girl who's as crazy as I am, though in her own ways. We look a bit alike, Michelle and I, and we sound alike when we talk. Laugh alike. And so help me god, this one doesn't lie to me nearly as much as the last. Keepin' my fingers crossed on that one!_

_Anyway, we're planning on hitting the fairgrounds next week, on Thursday. I don't remember the band that's playing, but I can look that up later, I think. And besides, that's not nearly as important as what's going on tonight. I've got a date, I do! _

_This guy, hot as a fucking sun god, also happens to be one of the most considerate people I've met. I mean, he's the first guy in months to not stare at my tits while I'm trying to have a conversation with him. Yeah, that's really a bonus. I met him at work-_

"I still hate that you had to quit school. You worked so hard…"

"Will you hush? I wanna get this done so I have time to get ready. Why are you reading over my shoulder anyway?"

A flash of sarcastic blue eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses. "Curiosity."

"Curiosity killed the cat."

"Lucky for me I'm not a feline..."

"Clever." I roll my eyes.

_-a few weeks ago. He asked for my number, which isn't uncommon when you have tits and a smile like mine and you work at a convenience pharmacy. Wooo, glamorous, isn't it? In any case, he came back twice a week for the next two weeks until I agreed to have lunch with him across the street on my break. So, I confess, I gave him my number, and here I am now. A week later, and going on a real date with him. Did I mention he could melt that forsaken sun beating down into my windows? I mean __damn__! Ah, I'm a little over-excited, I know. But hey, 'you're only young once', right?_

_He told me to dress formally, but wouldn't say where we're going. So, strapless little black dress with sparkles, here I come! With just enough room in my bra for my trusty can of toxic mace. Who needs a taser or a gun? What? A girl can't be too careful in a place like this… I think I've said that before…_

"Speaking of which, don't forget it."

"What do you take me for?"

"You're forgetful when you get excited…"

"Thank you, daddy." Again, my eyes roll and he chuckles and the base of my spine tingles.

"You know I don't like him."

"You don't like anyone, Crane."

_I'm hoping for a place like Falgoria's. Fantastic food – I've only ever been there once. _

"Falgoria's? That was the Italian place your grandfather took you when you were thirteen."

"Will you hush?"

He snickers, and I get a flash of his smile. He's being distractive on purpose, and I love him for it. It's entertaining, this back-and-forth kind of affection.

"Now why would I do that?"

Sigh.

_I better go! I'm not dressed or anything yet! And even if this is the only date with him I have, I still want to at least try and outshine his hotness… Hah! Yeah right!_

"Is he picking you up? As in, you're going in his car?"

"Yes'sir," I reply softly, slipping into my closet and pawing through my hanging dresses until I find that one that catches the light and shimmers. Black heels with little silver bows to finish it off, and I'm out and into my bathroom. Now for the long part.

"Wouldn't it be prudent, on a first date in this day and age, to go in separate cars and meet?"

"The hell? Seriously?" I give myself a questioning look in the mirror as I toss my damp curls with my fingertips. Hopefully they'll dry fast enough on their own and stay this perfect. "Aren't you from a time when it was considered incredibly… Unpolished to do it any other way?"

"Different time, different people, different place."

"Coming from a man who made it terrifying to even walk down the street holding hands if it was after sunset."

"Oh, the time of day didn't matter."

Ah, how I adore this madman. I roll my eyes, carefully, while trying to apply my eyeliner of choice. I know his opinions are biased based on his feelings for my personal safety, which in no small way is directly linked to his own – but at times like this I half expect to touch him with my mind and see him with a shotgun in hand, straw hat on, and a piece of wheat hanging from his lips. Haha, the thought amuses me, and I show it to him.

"So, apparently, I'm a hic now?"

"Only when you play father, Crane!"

"Point taken, Natasha. By all means, continue. I'll butt out and continue making plans for later. We need to trim and build on the greenhouse tonight…"

Oh, the greenhouse. I had forgotten. The guilty look and the bite of my lip tell him everything he needs to know about my minor amnesia of that particular thing and he laughs that soft, chiding laugh that makes me feel like a student again.

"Speaking of student, when might you be planning to continue your schooling?"

"Yeah, like any college will let me get my Masters now! I'm a drop-out with a GED…"

"You're a drop-out, yes. But you dropped out with perfect grades and recommendations. That is no excuse."

"If you don't mind, I'll think about school later. Tonight, I'm rather focused on my first date in over a year, thank you very much, doctor."

Another laugh, and then it fades to silence. I can feel that emptiness he leaves when he locks himself away from me, but at least it's not in anger. He's only doing it for my privacy, for we both know that if he didn't, he'd spend all night ridiculing my date. He hates Jason's long hair, his lip ring and obviously flippant ways. He hates that he's built like a god and had to make no effort to do so. He hates the fact that my date is a college drop-out and doesn't do anything with his life except odd labor and has nothing to show for it and… Yeah, it gives me a headache.

Either way, he's a nice man, or at least seems to be…

_Dear Diary,_

_I hope he fucking __suffers__…_


	5. Fair Game

_Dear Diary,_

_It is entirely possible that this has been the best day of my life. _

_The fair was perfect. Michelle, myself, and two other people made the most of the hottest day of the year. One of the best bands was playing tonight, and to top it off, I don't think Cotton Candy has ever tasted this good! Or funnel cakes, or candied apples! I rode all the rides a hundred times and screamed myself hoarse on a few of them! There was a laser light show to accompany the band on the main stage, and the grounds were so packed that it was almost like being in a mosh pit by that stage! _

_We got henna tattoos, bought airbrushed tee-shirts, various other little things, had pictures taken, and I'm sure every single one of us has a sunburn to boast tomorrow. I know I do. We got our faces panted, drank a boat load of water and probably more sugary things than we should have. Sometime during the day, we managed to get separated from one another. 'Chelle and I made a game of it, using the park as our own personal playground, trying to hide from the boys. It took them two hours to catch us! And when they did, they nearly tackled us into hay bales in the cow show stables. _

_Did I mention today was amazing?_

_I love watching the animal shows. There's this one blue-ribbon bunny that comes back with his owner every year. His name is Bootstrap, and by God, he's the cutest thing I've ever seen. Shaped like a little round ball with a littler round head and short ears. He's very loving. There were some other pretty ones too. I love the turkeys, and the horses, and the cows, and the sheep! They had mini-horses this year, too, and they were just too cute! _

_Jonathan enjoyed himself. I found out today that he'd never, ever been to a fair, and I figured it was about time he experienced one, even if it was through my eyes. He still kept quiet most of the day, but it was entertaining every time I felt him shudder inside me when I went on the Ring Of Fire. Or the Zipper. Apparently anything resembling a roller coaster or something that moves and spins too much is just not his style. Haha, I love it. _

"Laughing at my misery?" He sounds a little queasy, still. I think that list time on the Tilt-A-Whirl was a little too much for him to take. He'd receded from me earlier, and only now was popping back up.

"It wasn't that bad. I wouldn't have gone again if I knew it would make you ill. That's why I picked that ride. It was one of the more easy-going ones!"

"I wish you'd picked the strawberries instead…"

I laugh and put my diary away in its special spot with all my other special objects. I'm still dressed, and smiling to myself, I head for my closet and grab a backpack full of some things I'll need for tonight's hike. I add a few water bottles from the fridge, and I'm out the front door so quietly no one would have known had they been paying attention. The air is humid tonight, because of the water pregnant clouds, and I can smell rain.

"We're gonna get drenched," I warn, tipping my head toward the sky. I don't mind, but Jonathan's never been one to really enjoy being soaked to the bone by it. The first raindrop hits the end of my nose about halfway down the road to the city park, and I wiggle the appendage with a quiet laugh.

"I'll never understand why you like it so much," he says softly to me, allowing me a vision of his smile. If he'd let me, and if it were remotely possible, I'd hang from those lips for eternity. However, he is still a figment of my own imagination, and so of course I would be attracted to him. Or so I tell myself.

"I'll never understand why you don't," I reply kindly, stepping into the shadows of the downward slope that curves its way into the park. The air is cooling rapidly, and within minutes I am soaked by a downpour of rain. It kisses my skin like a lover, and I sigh at the way it makes me feel. Clean. As if maybe the rain itself could wash away the darkest part of me. That part of me that makes me excited every time I take this walk. The part of me that giggles and shudders in delight every time I take a needle to the arm of one of the homeless men that call this park home. They call me the Medicine Lady, and they think I supply them with a hit of some strong drug. They aren't too far off. Lucky for them, come morning, they don't remember anything from the night before, except the first wave of euphoria they feel before the screaming begins.

Sometimes, I really do think I'm a terrible person. Then, that soothing voice in the back of my head tells me I'm not. It tells me I'm simply curious, and the best way to curb curiosity is to experiment. It helps to remind myself that no one has died or been hurt who didn't deserve it. But does that make it right? I've never had a real black and white sense of what right and wrong is, so I guess that's what makes it so easy to tell myself what I'm doing isn't bad. I don't think other people would be so quick to agree with me, however.

The door to our secret hideaway opens silently under the influence of the key, and I take a deep breath before flicking on the light. I am not worried about being seen. This particular part of the park is so dense with plants and trees that there is no trail, and only someone who knows the exact location of this storage shack would even know where it is. As Jonathan and I were the ones who built it here, we are the only ones who know its exact position. I shrug off everything wet and hang it on a chair, slipping into my long lab coat before lighting my Bunsen burner. I need my first three vials all bubbling before any added powder is mixed in…

"There is nothing sexier than a wet woman in a poorly buttoned lab coat," whispers a raspy voice from the back of my head. "-who's willing to carry out my experiments for me. Ah, you do flatter me, 'Tasha." Scarecrow, when he perks up through Jonathan's softer personality, is one hell of a handful. But that doesn't stop me from smiling coyly as I take out a mortar and pestle, filling it with dried ingredients we keep in an adjacent cupboard. I begin to grind away, sitting down in another chair to watch my solutions begin to warm up.

"I hate to disappoint you, Mr. Crow, but we won't be experimenting on anyone tonight. It's too wet out there, and I don't want to catch pneumonia while hunting down our usual targets. Maybe tomorrow."

I see his eyes darken behind his mask, and he makes a 'tch' sound. It amuses me, this persona, and I cannot help but indulge him and encourage some of his more… peculiar behavior. One of those behaviors is being exhibited now, I note, as a warm tingle spreads from a point on me knee and along the outer curve of my thigh. It's distracting, and I sigh softly, continuing to grind away at the stone bowl in my hand. The warm sensation is on my hip, under my lab coat, and it feels like fingers scratching softly over the band of lace at my waist. Oh, distractions, I think as I can't help myself. My encouraging of this kind of behavior is awful, especially in moments like this when my cheeks go pink and I mewl at the touch.

"Well, 'Tasha, if I can't play with my usual lab rats, what shall I do? You know how I can't stand being bored for long, and all this mixing and grinding and note-taking isn't my thing. I'm more of a doer than Johnny-boy." Fingertips, cold, on my stomach force my eyes shut, but I still keep a keen ear out for the boiling of my vials. Nothing yet, I sigh, and set my ground ingredients on a nearby table, sinking back into the chair.

"Behave yourself. I promised you tomorrow night, Scarecrow."

"What if I don't want to wait?"

"I don't see how you have a choice."

"Oh, but I do, my dear! That's the beauty of your faith in me. You give me power – You give me life!"

And before I know what's happening, I feel the sharp point of a needle jamming through the muscle of my thigh. It's cold and suddenly it's burning, and then my vision changes. I don't know if somehow he used me to inject myself with our fearful creation, or if he wasn't kidding when he said I brought him life in some way. Power. But I can't think about it anymore, now. All I see is blackness, and two pinpricks of light. They're coming closer, but all around me I feel presence.

"You and I don't talk very often, 'Tasha…" His voice is terrifyingly close, like he's whispering in my ear. But which ear? I hear him everywhere. "I think it's time we have a conversation, don't you? Something more substantial that just how much we get our jollies off of other people's fears." Suddenly, he is unbearably close. His face, mask covered, eyes glowing with fire, is over mine, and he's towering over me. Hands close over my arms, pinning them down to the chair I'm in. His breath is hot and cold all at once, and I cannot help but flinch away.

"Tell me, Natasha, dear… Tell me something, no one else in the world knows except you ..." His grip is almost painful, and I gasp! I didn't know I wasn't breathing. And I can't look away anymore. His face is almost touching my own, and I can smell the scent of burlap.

"You scare me ..."

"I already knew that." He sighs, frustrated by my apparent incompetence. "I said tell me something that no one else knows ..."

I can't help but laugh, even though my body is shaking. He is standing between my parted and quivering knees, and my fingers are digging painfully into the armrests. I do not see anything except him. I am unnaturally afraid of nothing… So the fear I feel comes to me in waves of mortal terror, though what I'm to be so afraid of, I don't know. All I know is my stomach is churning and his eyes are burning holes into my scull and stealing the breath from my lungs and all I want is for him to give it back. I'd do anything!

"You scare me… And I like it …"

He is startled, for he is silent. Unnatural silence for him, for he is not contemplating, nor is he angry. He is stunned into silence by the confession I myself was not sure I had ever wanted to admit. If possible, he is enveloping me in his chilly frame, but those eyes are melting me from the inside out. Volcanic lava contained only by the thick ice of my skin. My shivering, shattering skin…

Warmth, skin, lips. They are on mine, but I can't feel them well. Thick strings of hemp separate out mouths, but that doesn't stop him. His sudden burst is fiery, and I am frozen in place like a statue. If I close my eyes, which I do, I can still feel him all around me. I can still see his eyes flaming through my lids, and I feel like his very presence is invading my own, tearing me away piece by piece until there is nothing left and the fragments don't please him anymore!

Without warning, I'm suddenly aware of light in front of my eyes, and when I open them I am still sitting in the chair, in the shack built by my own hands, locked in. The rain is pounding the roof, and I realize my cheeks are wet from tears that I hadn't been known were falling. I am still cold, goose bumps crawling from my ankles to my shoulders in waves. Looking down, there is still a needle pressed into my thigh, and my hand is on it this time. It is a different syringe, I can tell, for the first is lying on the floor, the puncture wound it had made in my thigh still bleeding next to the new one just created. I'm shaking.

"We'd better get to work, precious," rasps a voice in the back of my skull. This time, the shivers running up and down my spine are icy, and if it's possible, I like them more than ever before. Adrenaline rushes through me like ocean currents, and it's all I can do to get up and tend to my boiling mixture…

By the next day, any anger I had felt the rest of the night was forgotten.

I feel new.

I feel alive.


	6. All Work

_Dear Diary, _

_What the fuck..._

* * *

><p>"You're exhausted. You need to sleep."<p>

_I do not need sleep. I need more caffeine. Caffeine and sugar. Just enough to get me through this!_

"Natasha, child, you're going to burn yourself into cinders if you keep this up! This is the second all-nighter you've pulled in a row. Insomnia isn't something that should be encouraged."

_I don't care. Insomnia is a bitch, and so am I, and so help me God, I will __**finish**__ this project before my head ever gets anywhere near a pillow!_ Jonathan's words mean well, I know, and he's concerned for my current studying habits, but that doesn't mean I can't very well do as I please. I can't sleep until this is done.

"Natasha, answer me!"

"Huh? I was…"

"No… You weren't."

I look at the mirror on the edge of my desk, and my own eyes vacantly stare back at me. The lids are bruised and I can see the beginnings of bags forming below them. Oh, screw that. I do have to sleep… But there are only a couple of slides left on this presentation! I can get it done, I know! I'm so close, and I'm really hoping that this will be the thing that gets me the scholarship I need to push me through the doors of college! I'm so jazzed about the idea, that I can't stop editing the work, moving from slide to slide and fixing and rewording and rephrasing and erasing entirely to replace it with something different and…

"Natasha…"

My eyes are heavy, sore. I know this project is my entire world. My future. And, silly as it is, I want to make Jonathan proud. Right now, though, I can see him behind my eyes, shaking his head softly. There is something like sadness in his piercing blue irises and it makes me stop, tentatively clicking the save button in the corner of the program. I can't do this to myself, to him. He is worried and has every right.

"Why do you do this to yourself when you're angry? You push yourself to the brink like this and nearly destroy yourself. Given, it's for good cause…" His hand gestured forward, and I know he means my work. This isn't the first time. Whenever the world rides my ass and I feel the pressure of peers, adults, anyone who just rubs me the wrong way, like a kerosene-soaked match over sandpaper, I do this to myself. Last week, it was at a hospital, volunteering in the cancer ward.

The week before that, I lived in the animal shelter for three days in a row, opening and closing the building to the public and telling the manager I'd been up late and early to do so, so he could tend to his wife. She'd just had surgery… He didn't need to know I'd spent all night up with the animals there, bathing them and feeding them treats. Reading literature for them that they couldn't possibly understand, but seemed to enjoy all the same. I never slept, even when they did. This is what Jonathan was talking about. Killing myself to try and diffuse the anger I feel…

"Talk to me. You can't keep on like this."

"Sure I can. It's worked all this time."

"You're getting worse! I've never seen you put yourself through this kind of stress. Never."

And he'd been there with me for a long time. I sigh and lean back, closing the lid on my laptop with a gentle click. He's sighing, too, and the stress in his voice is making me sad. I didn't mean to make him worry so much, not about me. That, in fact, has always been the opposite of my goals.

"It's just..." My voice sounds tired, even to me, and I sigh again, standing and making for my closet to strip and toss my clothes in the laundry pile… Something else I would have to take care of tomorrow. "I hate this place. I hate my job, I hate the people in it… I hate the people who've become so fake. I hate my…" I stop myself and shudder, leaving my closet in the nude and slipping into my bathroom silently, flicking on the water in the tub to let it warm up.

"Mother," he finished for me, understanding all too well what kind of hell she was putting me through. I'm busting my ass! And she's throwing her life away over heartbreak, without seeing that I'm trying to make life happen. She doesn't care that killing herself is killing me. She doesn't seem aware that every hateful word she speaks is like a knife hacking away at my flesh. It's as if she just stopped caring about me, the one person who used to be so important to her…

"Yes…"

"Mine… Was similar. She was spiteful, Natasha. And her spite, her _anger_, changed her when I was young. It turned her into a monstrous thing… Your mother has become the same. What will your anger do to you?"

"I'm not my mother!" I snap hard, louder than I'd meant to, and I see him flinch from me slightly. And I realize he is right, and it drives me to tears. "Oh God… I'm sorry." I close my eyes as I reach back into the bath and pull the plunger to make the shower head spray above me. Climbing in, the water is still cool, but warm enough to relax me.

"It's alright. Don't cry. Everyone has a point where they just can't bend anymore. You've found yours, my dear."

His voice is so calming, no matter what mood I'm in, and I can feel my chest tighten and release, soft fingers pressing tenderly at the skin of my cheek. It is only natural that I sigh before slipping my arm out to the wall outside the shower, flicking on the iPod I have connected to speakers there. Instantly, the last song I was listening to begins to play, and I wrinkle my nose before changing it. Another starts up, slow and soft, and I allow it to continue. Jonathan is sighing, softly, and I smile.

"Would you like me to sing?"

"Please, Natasha. It's been weeks since you've sung for me."

"Has it? Really?" I'm amazed. I never go so long without singing…

"Yes. Please, the song is starting…" His voice is almost pleading, and this makes me curious, though only slightly. Instead, I take a breath…

"_If I die young, bury me in satin. Lay me down on a… bed of roses. Sink me in the river, at dawn; Send me away with the words of a love song_…"

And I can hear him sigh in the back of my head, and I can feel him settle down within me, as though my voice is a pain reliever, or a powerful anti-depressant. It must be, for as my voice lilts along with the first verse, I am greeted by images of him relaxing one muscle at a time until he is nothing but calm, eyes closed, lips ever-so-slightly parted. I want to lavish them in kisses. Nudge my nose against his, press my cheeks into the palms of his hands and just have him hold me. But he is tired, and so am I, and both of us – even in this state – are too rational for such ideas. So, I keep singing…

"_And I'll be wearing white, when I come into your kingdom. I'm as green as the ring on my little cold finger – I've never known the lovin' of a man, but it sure felt nice when he was holding my hand_…"

He is practically asleep, and I can feel it as he settles into slumber. I haven't even completed this one song yet, and poor Jonathan's almost out cold. It's so endearing to me, to know that my voice has such an impact on him. I do feel bad for not singing in so long. I never have asked him why it brings him such solace, but I try not to ask too many questions lately. He has been in the process of putting all his memories together, and recently they've been painful to swallow. For now, in this moment, while I'm settled into the corner of my shower, the spray washing over me like cold rain, I am almost as relaxed as he is. And I will let him sleep in peace tonight…

"_So put on your best, boys, and I'll wear my pearls_..."

The song comes to a close, and a yawn pulls itself from my lips. My fingers are curled around a rag, the scent of black orchids from my body wash reaching and tickling my nose pleasantly as I rub the cloth over my skin. Bubbles feel good, and I find myself giggling in the dark of my bathroom, my iPod switching to a new song. This time I don't sing, I merely listen and enjoy as my fingers cling to the rag that moves over my body with ease. Sleep is trying to lay claim to me, and with a tired yawn, I lean my head back against cool tile as water washes over me, clearing the satin-like bubbles from my skin…

"You shouldn't let yourself doze off in the shower like that, 'Tasha…"

* * *

><p><em><strong>Song<strong>_: "If I Die Young" - The Band Perry

_**Disclaimer**_: Don't own the song, just the girl singing it in this fic.


	7. And No Play

**NOTE:** _This chapter rated M for Mature viewers only based on sexual themes and blatant Fear Toxin use. :D Thanks._

* * *

><p><em>I didn't want to wake up…<em>

* * *

><p>"Huh?"<p>

Wearily, I open my tired eyes and peer before me. Cold water sprays me in the face when I move to sit up straighter, shaking my head. The water is markedly colder, and I have no idea how long I've drifted off for. My legs are not yet numb, but tingling lightly, so it must not have been too long. However, I realize now that there is a reason I've awoken so abruptly from my gentle, soothing slumber. A sound, a voice. A muffled chuckle is now rasping outside my shower curtain, or so I think, and a quick look to the corner of the drapery shows what I have been silently hoping against. Glowing eyes peer back at me, stitched, grimacing smile teasing me.

"Scare-ahh!"

Without another word, his hand is around my arm, tugging me from my place on the cool porcelain of the tub. I am on my feet and out of the shower in a moment, my body naked, chilled, and pressed against the partially-clothed body of my alter-ego's alter-ego. My hands are on the scratchy burlap making a v-shape over his chest, the free length of the noose around his neck between my breasts. Our stomachs meet, and his is firm and dotted with that lean muscle I know him to have, my own flat and soft. My thighs are accosted by that same itchy material, and I almost laugh because it tickles. However, the bright orbs boring down into mine stop all that. One hand is on my shoulder, but where is the-

"OW!"

"Shhh. Don't want you to start screaming yet, 'Tasha. Let's save that for a few minutes. Right now, you should come with me and lie down. Let your medicine do its work, hmm?"

I don't know what's hit me first. The stinging pain of his needles, sinking into my flesh and muscle – I'm sure needle cracked a bone, it hurts so badly; The drugged feeling that's whirling around my brain, making it foggy and delirious; Or maybe the acute awareness I have of my external senses. The way his skin feels on mine where our abdomens meet has somehow become the most prominent thought in my head. So hazy I feel, I don't even notice as I'm guided from the bathroom, shower and music still running in the background, and made to lay on the comforter of my bed – pale skin against black and gray and white ornate blankets and pillows.

My room is so dark, I can't see a thing. He is moving at my side, and I do not look at him, instead choosing to peer into the dark. My heart is throbbing in my chest, and I am acutely aware of its odd beat. _Bumbum-bum-bumbu-bumbum_. It continues like this, and I tilt my head, wondering why it's changed from its steady, serene pace. And suddenly, as I turn my head, I realize. Scarecrow seems infinitely larger, and when he speaks to me again, his voice is booming in my ears.

"How do you feel, my dear, sweet 'Tasha?"

"Drugged, thank you very much…"

"Ah, that wit I love about you so much! Let's see if we can't quell that little quirk of yours."

And his frame is over mine, on mine, I can feel him sidling up between my knees. I don't even resist, though his hands are over my wrists, and his chest is bearing down on top of mine. His face is so close I can feel his hot breath through his mask, eyes burning into my lungs like fire. Fire! I think I can see fire in those orbs; hear the devil in his laughter; see spiders crawling behind the fringe of his burlap. His noose is a snake, and it snaps at me, though I never feel it make contact. It hisses at me, and I can feel it wiggle between my breasts.

My wrists are planted on either side of my head, and no matter how I thrash now, I cannot escape the sudden onslaught. No matter how I try, I can't take my eyes off of him, or the snake slithering over my right breast. It hisses up at me again, before the venom-filled teeth unsheathe themselves. This time, I feel it when it connects, encircling my nipple and piercing it. My lungs are full of cinders when I finally scream out, only to feel the snake wiggling along my flesh. Another hiss, and a mirror image of the pain I'd just felt simmers in my other nipple. I know they are bleeding, and I know the snake has infected me with its poison, and all I can do is weep.

Hands, soft and calloused only at the fingertips, make their way to my cheeks. Caressing them, drying the tears that have spilled freely onto them from my crinkled eyes. The snake is slithering again, though this time just to move. It no longer hisses, but occasionally noses against my bellybutton, tongue flicking across it. I can feel the soft touch of skin, and it sooths my pains for a moment. When palms leave my cheeks, I almost feel okay again. That is, until fingers pinch at my sore breasts, nipples erecting under the pain caused to them.

"If I didn't know better, I would say you were enjoying this…"

He is mocking me, and I have half a mind to tell him to go back to hell and never come back again. But I find I can't do that. My mouth is full, and of what I do not know. It tastes of dirt and I can feel things crawling on it. They crawl over my tongue, down the back of my throat, I can feel them inside me, worming and creeping around in places they don't belong. It has distracted me from a bigger problem. However, when I do notice it, I scream into the gag in my mouth, bucking my body off the softness of my bed.

Between my legs, the Scarecrow kneels. My hands are immobile, and I can feel slimy things binding them, coiling around them, squeezing my wrists to the point of pain. My hips are being held by his hands with bruising strength I am unaware he even possessed. Thumbs pressed into the bones, long fingers around the curve that leads back to my ass. And the most noticeable part is the twitching, gently throbbing erection that is pressed so obviously against the apex of my thighs. To my horror, he meets no resistance from my body as he moves forward, pressing his way inside of me with all the patience of a slowly drawling river.

Inch by inch he creeps forward, slowly filling me until our hips meet and he is buried in the warmth of my body. I can feel my skin crawl against him, and I can feel things crawling on me. With the first real thrust he delivers, my breasts bounce, aching nipples rubbing against his chest, the burlap still covering his head and torso ravaging the sensitive wounds. I scream again in my (dis)pleasure, the horrid cloth in my mouth preventing anything more than muted groans to be audible. I hear a chuckle above me, and again my eyes find glowing orbs; big yellow ones that again are trying to light my very soul on fire.

"You, my dear, are awful noisy tonight. And here I was thinking you wouldn't be a screamer."

The cloth in my mouth is violently removed, leaving a taste in my mouth that I don't think I'll ever be able to get rid of. It is discarded somewhere beyond my vision, and without its distraction, my heightened senses come back full force. I am aware of his hands on my hips again, cruelly using them as leverage for his increasing drives into my prone and (non)protesting form. Faster and faster his pace goes, deeper, if possible, until I think I can feel him bruising my lungs from the inside. I sure as hell can't breathe. My heart feels like it is being driven from my chest, and another scream leaves my sore and dry lips. It rockets off the walls and comes back to me like sonar, the sound of my own passionate desire-fear numbing my brain to all thought. All that matters is him, and me, and how my body is begging him to never, ever stop.

For surely, that's what it's doing. My nipples are erect, still, and painfully so. Breasts bounce with every piston-like movement Scarecrow makes within me. Hips ache with the driving force of his thighs between my shuddering legs. I notice, now, for the first time, that not only does he fill me to the brink, but he stretches me to the point of ache. My muscles clench around him, and he only pushes his way against them until he's buried again. Pulling away, the cycle starts anew, and every time, I find myself releasing a drawn out moan into the air. When did my screams turn to moans? I don't remember.

I know my body is cold; my skin must be freezing. My window is open, letting in the chilly autumn air. But inside, my organs are burning, blood boiling, veins blistering, and soul disintegrating. I suddenly know that every encounter we've had together has been in preparation for this moment. And he knows I know it, too. And at this point, I don't think he cares, because I don't. All I care about is the snake coiling and uncoiling around my breast, the slimy things on my wrists, and him! His skin is melting me, burying me into the bed as if that will be my funeral pyre and coffin all in one.

The edges of my vision are going black, and I know I cannot breathe as I should. My lips can only take in gasps, letting them out in yelps and sighs and moans and squeals! I know I'm wriggling below him, bucking my hips in dire need to uncoil the horrible, vicious knot that has settled itself in my belly. It hurts! And it feels like it's on fire. I can't take the burn…

"Please, please, please," I whimper, but it doesn't sound like me to my own ears. I feel something, fingers, long and spindly. They are curling in my drying curls, and soon they are taught and yanking! My head is yanked up, now being used to drive the man on. His breath is hot on my face, and I know he can feel my weak gasps warming his mask. "Please!"

"Please what?"

"End this. Oh, God, please… I can't… I won't… Please!"

"Try again."

He struck me then, not hard, but enough to make my cheek sting. His fist in my waterfall of hair was all I could hold onto in that moment, the only constant. Even his movements inside me weren't that way anymore. Sporadic, spasmodic, primal. A thrust without rhythm. The ache on my scalp, stealing my breath and further blackening my vision was all I could keep hold of. My body, too, was going numb, and as everything in my world faded to blackness, I felt it. The coil, buried deep inside my abdomen, let go. The dam holding it back burst as though a crack had been made in it, and as every built up tensions he'd stirred in me released itself in savage onslaught upon him, I let out one final, aching scream…

…

"Natasha… Natasha?"

"Mmmm?"

"Wake up, child. You're late for work."

Jonathan's voice was a soothing sound against the nightmare I just had. There was an odd note in it, though, as if of guilt. I knew, on occasion, we would share dreams. He must have viewed mine. I can only imagine the feeling he was dealing with at the moment. Slipping from my covers, I pay little attention to the aches and pains of the morning, rushing to get ready. It isn't until I reach my bathroom, throwing clean clothes on the counter and picking up my brush that I realize something it terribly off…

Through each one of my swollen nipples is a little silver barbell…


	8. Free

_Dear Diary,_

_I got it! I got my acceptance letter in the mail today. The high school drop-out with nothing but a GED under her belt has single handedly gotten herself accepted into the most prestigious college in the state! It might not be Ivy League, but I didn't want to bump noses with those snot-nosed know-it-alls anyway. Here, I'll be with people I've known all my life. I'll be in a place I love. Better yet, I'll be close to home. That's important to me. I've got it all figured out! I'm making enough money at my crap-job to survive in a little one-bedroom apartment while I'm in college. I've gotten enough scholarships to pay the down on my tuition, and I'll let student loans cover the rest 'til I'm out! The leftover money from my scholarships will help feed me for the next four years. Yep! This lil' lady's getting' herself a Master's degree, bitches! Now, all I need to prepare for is-_

* * *

><p>"Ouch!" I watch as the pen falls from my hand, a sigh escaping my lips at the same moment. My hand is driving me nuts. It's been hurting constantly today, and I know why. I'm sure there's been some damage because of all the typing and writing I've been doing lately, pressing on and on to try and get myself accepted into one of the state colleges. Given, it's completely paid off! My acceptance letter made me cry today, and I'd never felt so good about myself as I did in that moment.<p>

And here I am, now. My cheeks are flushed as I look at the mirror on my desk, noticing the twinkle in my eyes as well. I'm not the only one. There is a quiet chuckle in the back of my head, and I am rewarded for my efforts by a pair of blue eyes peering at me from behind wire-rimmed glasses. A smile follows, and I feel myself melting into my chair, eyes closed now, to better view what is taking part in my head.

Lips curl at the edges, pulling back to reveal white teeth and a satisfied and eager grin. Jonathan is proud of me. I know it before he takes a breath to say it, but when he does, I giggle and slip further into my favorite daydream. Him and myself, alone, with nothing to distract us from our conversation, or our plans for the evening. I can tell by the gleam in his eyes that he does indeed have plans. Patiently as always, I wait, shivering in delight as his hand seems to ghost over my arm. It is always a strange feeling. There, but not. Like a breeze ruffling the peach fuzz on my flesh and nothing more.

"You have worked so very hard, Natasha. I'm so proud of you. It is strange, though. I remember when you were so young and said you wanted to grow up to be like me. I thought you were kidding."

"I told you I wasn't," I reply with a smile.

"Indeed you did, child. Indeed you did. Now, it's cold out tonight, but I think a little studying is in order. Don't you agree? We've had an… experiment on hold for quite some time now."

I gasp. "I completely forgot. The vial won't have frozen or anything, right?"

"You underestimate the potency of the chemical. It will be waiting for us in the condition we left it, my dear."

I don't say anything else. I don't need to. This is perfect. One of my favorite things in the world is helping him with his research. I know, I know. Totally not healthy. I figured that out a long time ago. It's only been recently that I stopped caring about that fact. I appease myself frequently by reminding myself that I have never killed anyone who did not deserve it, and those who are experimented on are well compensated and taken care of for their time and... suffering.

My shoes are on and tied before I even come out of my thoughtful haze. Keys: check. Coat: check. Sanity: I'll get back to you on that.

An icy breeze greets me as I step out of the safety of my home, warning my mother that I'm taking a walk and will be out for some time. She replies that's fine and wishes me a safe walk. This is normal. She doesn't care, as long as I don't come home pregnant or with a stray cat or something. It almost makes me laugh. No time for giggling now, though. I have a mission.

"You should dress warmer, silly girl. You'll catch a cold."

"You know me, Doctor," I say quietly against the silent falling snow. "I don't really get cold. By the time I do, I'll have the chance to get warm again."

His laughter soothes me, and I smile, feeling the pull of my lips against the chill. I really should be frozen already, but I'm not. I just say it's because of genetics. No matter the reason, I prefer the cold over the heat. You'd never catch me in Texas in summertime. No way.

This is where my thoughts stayed, mostly, daydreaming of hot and cold. It stayed on that path until I was at our shack, key already in the lock, turning the deadbolt quietly until it clicked. The door silently led the way into the one-roomed chamber, the windowless interior slightly warmer than the chill of this winter night. I make my rounds, turning on the lights, shaking off my coat, and ducking down to unlock my cabinets. Inside the box I take out, which is also locked, is a small vial of an amber-colored fluid. It looks like liquid topaz, and I smile. Jonathan's alter-ego had directed me in the use of this, and Jonathan himself had seemed pleased with the idea. From what I could tell, it was a more potent version of the normal toxin.

"So, the effects should last longer and give us an idea of what long term damage, if any, that fear can play on the mind in large quantities? Like severe paranoid schizophrenia?"

"Something like that. Remember, we shouldn't assume what may happen. Our _object_ is to be _objective_. That's the only way to get trusted results."

"Got'cha, Doc. Who's up for the game tonight?"

"Let's offer that Devin fellow some medicine tonight. He's been severely past due."

"Whatever you say."

Within five minutes I'm out the door, steeled against the cold wind. My feet crunch on the snowy, root-riddled ground as I head toward the grouping of trees and bushes I know the man named Devin to live in. He is a kind man, and inwardly, I hope that whatever damage he takes on behalf of my studies tonight will not go in vain, nor that they will be permanent…

"You know I can't guarantee you anything like that," comes that soft, playful tone I know Jonathan to take when he feels excitement.

"I know," I mutter in reply, biting my lip as I stoop to invite myself into Devin's home. The smile that plays over his features is warm, and his eyes are a little too alert. He is worried, as always, that I am some kind of law enforcement, here to bust him for his 'heroin' habit.

"Medicine Lady!" he cries at me, throwing open his arms. I smile, for I can't help myself. These men are always so welcoming, especially when they are sure I've come with their drug of choice… If only they knew.

"Good evening, Devin," I reply, my tone carefully even and soft, much like a female Jonathan. He chuckles in the back of my head, used to me taking this tone when I'm in research mode. I swell with pride in myself, but keep a tight rein on my voice. "Feeling jittery?"

"Yes, oh, yes!"

"Well, let's see if we can't take the edge off, huh?"

He holds out his arm, all too eager for my special brand of medicine. The other vial in my pocket will ensure he remembers nothing of his nightmares tonight, as always, and will keep him hooked on me, as if my presence itself is the drug he seeks so terribly. It is an endless circle with the homeless men down here. Each of them with their own needs, all of them submitting to my studies. I don't think anything of it anymore.

"Little pinch," I warn, letting the tip of my needle slip into the vein he's provided for me. He is dehydrated, I can tell. The needle meets a little resistance before settling, and I have to press the plunger too slowly, or risk rupturing the vein itself. The process is slow, and I keep an eye on the man, hoping the reaction won't come too quick. It doesn't, though just barely. No sooner does my needle leave him than the screams begin.

He is looking at me with wide eyes that nearly bulge from his head. Hazed with fear. I cannot imagine what he sees, and I don't want to either. Once, in the early stages of this experimentation, I was the lab rat for a low dose of this type of fear. More recently, it has been used on me for fun. This type of dose would surely drive me mad.

"What is it, my friend? Am I on fire? All bones that just won't seem to disintegrate? Or is it the spiders this time, dear? I know how you hate watching them crawl from my mouth and jump at you, ravenous for your blood. What is it, love? You need to tell me. Like a good boy…"

Devin, however, is silent. His screams have turned to nothing, not even breath, though his mouth remains open, as if the scream is lodged in his throat and he is choking on it. His eyes are still bulging, staring at me, unable to look away from whatever it is he sees in me tonight. Maybe he sees my true face. Huh. Never did think of that.

"Speak up," I urge, reaching out to him, only to smile in satisfaction as he recoils with a loud breath. This new scream gets stuck also, though, and before long I can see his body seizing up on itself. He is stuck in perpetual motion, it seems, and there is something welling in the corners of his eyes.

Blood. I see it now. It's dripping from his nose and oozing from his eyes. He isn't breathing, but suddenly he's reaching out to me, clawing at the air in front of me as though his worst fear may indeed save him from what is happening to him now. I sit still, neither hindering nor aiding. His lips turn down in the most horrible grimace I've ever seen. His eyes roll back into his head – I can only see the whites. His body is falling forward, toward me, and only now do I move to avoid the contact. When he falls, all is silent, and the air itself is still. It takes me a minute to notice the blood pooling around him, staining the legs of my jeans.

"Jonathan… What the _fuck_ just happened?"

My voice is pitched strange. I'm reaching out, fingers searching to find a pulse. There is none. I shove, heave, and push until I get the still body rolled over onto its back. The eyes are still open, rolled back into the skull. Devin is dead, but that doesn't stop me from trying to revive him. Desperately, I lean forward, pushing my lips to his. I taste the blood on his mouth, but don't mind it. No, no, _no_! He _can't_ be dead. He didn't deserve it! He was good… _He was good_…

"Natasha. This was an experiment well done."

"How do you… Fucking… Figure?" My hands are beating on his chest, palms forcing breath in and out of his lungs, begging his heart to kick up and _beat_.

"What have we learned? Fear can cause death… Quite literally, the rush of adrenaline, if not expelled and diluted, will result in the explosion of one's heart."

"Explosion… of…" I feel faint. I fall back, scooting as far away from the body as I can, disbelieving. I've never _watched_ someone die before. Never had to witness the horrifying last breath. Never like this.

"Natasha?"

"Fuck you."

"Natasha! I don't-"

"You don't need to understand. You need to go fuck yourself. How could you, of all people, not have expected…"

It dawns then. He _did_ expect it. He knew something like this would happen, and he used me to… prove it.

"Please, child, don't you see?"

"NO! I don't see. I don't see why I've ever idolized you like this. I don't see what good came of this. Why couldn't we have done this to someone who deserved it? Not someone like Devin. Simple, sweet Devin."

And I'm crying, and my face is in my hands, and I'm shutting down the sound of Jonathan's voice. It fades into the back of my skull, and I can't bring myself to care. In the dark, I flee. I run blindly, knowing my way through this place as if I'd grown up in the middle of the park itself. My shack is warm when I enter, but I don't care. I throw my things down, kick at the small side table with one of the lamps. I pick up every vial, every piece of equipment and shatter it on the floor. I don't even notice when my hands burn from the toxic glass cutting into them. I don't notice the shadows moving on either side of me like looming figures, waiting to pounce. I don't see the giant spider following my every movement, craving to devour me whole. I don't feel the snake biting at my ankles as I lock up and flee for my life…

I don't even register throwing my clothes in the fireplace at home, or the ice cold shower that soaks me to the core and makes me feel like I'll never be warm again.

And I certainly don't remember falling asleep with moaning zombies in my bed, crawling over me to try and make me their next meal…

It isn't until morning comes. My eyes open up to the sun filtering in through my window, made ultra-bright by snow reflecting off the ground. My heart is dead in my chest. I don't feel it beating anymore. This is the first morning since I was a child that I've woken up to silence. Only the birds singing their happy tune outside remind me that I'm not deaf. They mock me, I know it. The aching in my chest is like the bass to their poetic cries. They are telling me I am free.

_Free as a bird…_


End file.
